


Barcelona Princess Hotel

by ignaz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Christophe Giacometti & Victor Nikiforov Friendship, Drinking, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Third Person Omniscient, discussions of sexual history, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/ignaz
Summary: In the dim, well-appointed bar on the second level of the Barcelona Princess Hotel, 24 hours after the closing events of the 2016 ISU Grand Prix Final of Figure Skating, three men, skaters all, sat at a table, swapping war stories.Drinking and reminiscing with Yuuri, Victor, and Christophe.





	Barcelona Princess Hotel

In the dim, well-appointed bar on the second level of the Barcelona Princess Hotel, 24 hours after the closing events of the 2016 ISU Grand Prix Final of Figure Skating, three men, skaters all, sat at a table, swapping war stories. 

“—and so I blew him in the stairwell! What else was I supposed to do? He was so kind about helping me find my missing shoe,” mused determined-not-to-be-embittered fifth-place finalist Christophe Giacometti. 

On the other side of the table, former five-time gold medalist and current fledgling coach Victor Nikiforov, weak with laughter and also with vodka, half collapsed against the shoulder of the love of his life, the light of his heart, the man he hoped to someday marry—provided they ever managed to have an actual conversation about it. 

Katsuki Yuuri, silver medalist, new world-record-holder, recent virgin, and putative fiancé of Victor Nikiforov, let the man he’d loved forever and to whom he had recently accidentally sort-of proposed lean on his shoulder, and smiled. Then frowned. “In the stairwell?” 

“ _Well_ ,” Christophe echoed, “I couldn’t bring him back to the room, could I? With Stefan and Patrice and who-all-knew-who-else already there. It would have ended in fisticuffs or an orgy. And I wasn’t taking my chances, not that night, let me tell you ...” 

Victor let loose a spectacular cackle and slapped the surface of the table. “Chris, you are an icon,” he pronounced, half-bowing to his friend. He meant it. No one but Christophe could weave such ribald tales of sexual adventure. No one else had the raw material. 

“Well, I learned from the master, didn’t I?” Christophe batted his eyelashes at Victor, whose head abruptly drooped forward, weighed down by alcohol and a newer, more alien sensation that he couldn’t immediately identify. 

“Oh no,” Victor laughed. “Not me. I was never half the man you were, and _are_ —” 

“Victor Nikiforov, ‘Five-Time World Champion in Fucking,’ if I recall correctly,” Christophe mused. He and Victor had been friends for a long time, and they shared a lot of fond memories. Fond, fond memories. “Or was it only four times, back then? But who’s counting, really—” 

Victor chuckled and shook his head ruefully. “Chris—” 

“You forget, darling, I knew you when you were the biggest slut in the Olympic Village. What was the name of that American skier, the one with the huge—” 

“CHRIS!” 

Christophe frowned. “No, that wasn’t it, I would have remembered that.” 

“Chris, shut up,” Victor laughed, his expression pained. “You’re embarrassing Yuuri.” 

“I’m not embarrassed,” said Yuuri, who was in fact not the least bit embarrassed. Yuuri was more than capable of being embarrassed, and easily, though not at his present level of inebriation. He had passed his embarrassment stage one drink ago, and was now approaching the pugilistic/exhibitionist stage. Two more drinks in and he’d be dancing on the bartop. 

“All right, fine, _I’m_ embarrassed,” Victor said, still smiling, but skillfully avoiding eye contact with either of his companions. 

“Oh, love,” Christophe said, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He really didn’t. He was surprised to see Victor looking so chagrined. But he’d also been surprised to see Victor wearing a ring three days earlier. Victor Nikiforov was just full of surprises these days, even off the ice. 

“Forgive me,” Christophe said. “Why don’t I get us all another round, hmm? Yuuri?” He slid out of the booth with grace and made his way to the bar. 

Yuuri studied Victor’s face, which was breathtakingly handsome and slightly pink. Victor was drawing in the condensation on the tabletop with great focus. At last, he looked over at Yuuri with a sheepish expression. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor said. 

Yuuri frowned. “Why?” 

Victor looked away from him. “We’ve never really talked about …” He shrugged and returned to his table art. “You don’t need to hear all the details about my … my past. It was a long time ago.” 

“Does it bother you?” Yuuri asked, and Victor’s eyes flew to his. “I mean ...” 

“No,” Victor said. “That is—there’s nothing bad, nothing shameful, if that’s what …” 

Yuuri nodded, relieved. Not that he’d ever had cause to suspect Victor had been hurt, or even more than mildly inconvenienced, by any past sexual or romantic encounters. But there were things one could never really know, not about one’s idols, not even about one’s maybe-possible-theoretical fiancés. 

“It’s just—” said Victor. “It’s just that … you …” He gestured expansively at Yuuri, who blinked once, winced, and nodded. 

“Right,” Yuuri agreed, thinking of a time not that many months ago when he’d declared a pork cutlet bowl to be the sexiest thing in his world. 

“And I,” said Victor, now gesturing to himself, “and I worry, sometimes, especially now that I know that you _didn’t_ know or at least didn’t remember Sochi, and now I look back on when I first came to Hasetsu and you were—and I was—and then—” 

“Victor,” Yuuri said, taking one long, white, flailing hand between his own and lowering it to his own thigh, where he gently patted it. “I know you have a past. I know you’ve had … other lovers.” 

Victor gave the thigh under his palm a reassuring squeeze. He didn’t know if it felt reassuring to Yuuri but it felt reassuring to him, at least. His Yuuri was so squeezable. “Does it bother _you_?” 

“No,” Yuuri said. “It doesn’t bother me.” Then Yuuri paused in a way that Victor, after a year minus three months or so of serious study, now knew to mean that he had more to say, but needed a moment to gather his thoughts. Victor sat, patient and alert. 

“I know you’ve had other lovers,” Yuuri said again. “I’ve always known. Of course you have, you’re Victor Nikiforov. And it’s not like I never heard … rumors …” 

Here Yuuri blushed, an autonomic reaction that never failed to compound his own sense of awkwardness. Nor did it ever fail to make Victor Nikiforov’s blood sing. It was a flushed, pink Yuuri that Victor had fallen ass-over-teakettle for 12 months ago, and here it was happening all over again, right that very minute. Truly, Yuuri never ceased to surprise. 

“And it’s fine,” Yuuri continued. “It’s better than fine. Do you remember, the first time we—?” 

Victor Nikiforov very nearly went cross-eyed. _Did he remember?_ The memory of the first time he’d been allowed into Katsuki Yuuri’s bed was seared into his brain like the scorched remains of the forest near Tunguska, etched onto his heart more permanently than the snowflake engraved in the gold band he wore on his third finger. He could live a thousand lifetimes and never forget the satin of Katsuki Yuuri’s skin, the arch of Katsuki Yuuri’s back, the sweet indentation of Katsuki Yuuri’s teeth in his lower lip as he whimpered with pleasure. 

“I didn’t know anything,” Yuuri said, barely a whisper, his cheeks turning from pink to red. He also remembered the first time he’d had Victor Nikiforov in his bed, although with somewhat less shine than Victor’s own memories. In Yuuri’s recollection, there was a great deal more ineptitude before the (admittedly spectacular) conclusion. “I had no idea what I was doing. But you—you did. You knew what to do. And you taught me. You keep teaching me.” 

Victor’s palm, still on Yuuri’s thigh, was sweating. He moved it, slowly, down and back up Yuuri’s thigh—to get rid of the moisture. Yuuri’s trousers were cheap. Victor could paw at them all he wanted. 

“That’s why it doesn’t bother me that there were others before me,” Yuuri went on. “Of course I wouldn’t mind anyway! It’s your life, and you’re an adult, and it’s none of my business and I wouldn’t judge you or anyone else and—” 

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor said. He’d never tire of saying it, just like that, for as long as he lived. 

Yuuri paused and took a long breath. Then he turned to look Victor dead in the eye, licking his plush, kissable lips. In a low voice Victor had heard before, one that spoke of heat and pleasure and _eros_ , _eros_ , _eros_ , he said: 

“It doesn’t bother me, because they’re part of your past. They helped make you the man you are. The man I ...” 

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor moaned. 

“And now _I’m_ the one who gets to reap the benefits,” Yuuri breathed. He shifted, angling himself more toward Victor, and leaned in close. Victor was done for. 

“They might have had you before,” Yuuri said, just above a whisper. ”But I’m the only one who gets to have you now.” 

“Hey, did you guys know that JJ and his fiancée are ‘saving themselves’ for marriage, or something like that? How quaint.” Christophe set three new glasses on the table with minimal spillage and nodded his head in the direction of the table where bronze medalist and limited conversationalist Jean-Jacques “JJ” Leroy sat with actual confirmed fiancée and paragon of support Isabella Yang. 

But on the other side of Christophe’s own table, there was no acknowledgment. “Guys? Yuuri? Victor?” 

“We have to go,” said Victor, taking his speculative betrothed by the arm and half-dragging him out of the booth. 

Christophe sputtered. “But I just bought drinks!” 

“Sorry, Chris,” said Yuuri, letting himself be half-dragged. 

“Sorry, Chris!” Victor echoed, waving cheerfully as he hauled Yuuri toward the elevator bank with as much speed as could be managed with a raging erection. 

“You—” But it was too late, Christophe could see that well enough. Katsuki Yuuri had been good for Victor, but he tended to inspire abrupt departures. Christophe sighed and looked mournfully at the three full glasses at his now-deserted table. Then he looked at JJ and Isabella, who were gazing deeply, and chastely, into each other’s eyes. 

“In vain have you acquired knowledge if you do not impart it it to others,” said Christophe, solemnly, as he picked up the drinks again and went off to scandalize some Canadians. 

**Author's Note:**

> lol what the heck am i doing


End file.
